


A Missing Case

by Carmilla



Category: Lamplight City
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-21 14:24:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17045366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmilla/pseuds/Carmilla
Summary: Miles and Bill try to take each others' measure as they work on their first case.





	A Missing Case

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Khantael](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khantael/gifts).



> Hope you have an awesome Yuletide, Khantael! Thanks for the heaps of great prompts, I really enjoyed writing this for you.

“Miles!” Connie called as he walked through the precinct door. “Check in with Snelling. He wanted to see you as soon as you got here.”

That was more or less Miles' least favourite sentence to hear at the start of a work day. He paused by Connie's desk.

“Any idea what it's about?”

“Moving day again, I think. I just processed Mercier's transfer paperwork yesterday evening.”

“That's what, my fourth partner in the last seven months? How many more do I need to beat the department record?”

“Very funny, Miles. You know this one was nothing to do with you. Mercier's been panting to get over to Lyon since he arrived here.” She flicked her eyes up from her typewriter and gave him a brief grin. “But since you ask, old Cooperton's still the record holder. Went through eleven partners the year he made detective, and one of them only lasted two weeks. You'd better hustle if you want to catch him up.”

“You know me, I'm all hustle. Thanks, Connie.”

Miles rolled his shoulders a couple of times and headed for Snelling's office, doing his best to think positive thoughts. His first partner had been great; he'd have happily worked with John for years if the guy hadn't retired. Just because his next three partners had been respectively a drunk, an idiot and a snob didn't mean they were deliberately sticking him with the hopeless cases. He was probably due another good one.

Snelling opened the door when he knocked and nodded him into the room.

“Fordham.”

It wasn't that there was anything particularly offensive in the way Snelling said his name, but somehow Miles was always tempted to respond by calling him 'Reginald' in those same clipped tones. He nobly restrained himself. Snelling made a curt gesture towards the other man in the room.

“This is William Leger. Have you met?”

Miles took in a vaguely familiar face, which had begun showing up in the briefing room a few months previously. Usually towards the back, and usually alone. His clothes were a little on the shabby side; not another snob, at least.

“Don't believe I've had the pleasure.” He held out his hand. This was the moment that occasionally got dicey. Leger took it without hesitation, though, and gave him a crooked half-grin; his rather ordinary features were suddenly engaging.

“Pleasure's all mine. And it's Bill, please.”

“Miles.”

Snelling cleared his throat.

“As I'm sure you're aware, Fordham, Mercier has transferred to our Lyon station. You'll be working with Leger here for the foreseeable future.” And try to stick it out this time, Miles mentally translated from Snelling's tone. “Go and see Longworth. A body turned up at Gascogne docks this morning – he'll fill you in on the details. Dismissed.”

~

Two constables were keeping back any interested onlookers from the scene of the crime when they arrived. There weren't many. A body in Gascogne wasn't anything much out of the ordinary, and most of the dockworkers were too busy for more than a brief, curious glance. Miles nodded to the men on duty and headed straight for the corpse, mechanically noting the obvious details as he approached; tall, male, white, dressed for last night's weather in a heavy raincoat and boots. He was sprawled face down on the cobblestones, hands splayed and empty. The back of his head was a raw mess. Miles sat on his haunches to get a closer look, feeling Bill stop a couple of paces behind him. There were two neat holes in the upper back of the coat; it was dark-coloured and damp, concealing the bloodstains that must be there. Gingerly, Miles leaned forward and sniffed at the head wound. He smelled burnt hair and gunpowder, and knew he'd been right. He straightened up.

“Two shots at a distance, and the last one with the gun pressed right against the head. He was probably already dead by then. No chance to fight back or even to turn around.”

“So no chance he marked up our murderer for us, worse luck.” Bill stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “This look professional to you?”

Miles nodded. “Professional and prearranged. It's night, our guy's wearing a dark coat, and the killer shoots him twice in the back and doesn't even turn him over to check his face before he delivers the headshot. I'd say he knew exactly who he was looking for, where and when. Speaking of, you alright if I turn him on his back now?”

“Lemme just check we have the all-clear. Hey, Bradley!” Bill called out to one of the constables. “Has the sketch artist been and gone?”

“Long before you got here, Leger!” Bradley shot back. Miles wasn't sure he liked his tone; but then, he'd never been great at finding the line between friendly banter and insubordination. Bill didn't seem put out. He nodded to Miles.

“Let's move him.”

Gently, they turned the body over. Blood had pooled underneath him and only half congealed in the damp night air; his clothes clung stickily to the cobbles. Miles was getting ready to examine the exit wounds when Bill took a look at the man's face and swore.

“You know him?”

For a moment, Bill didn't meet his eyes. Then one of his shoulders shrugged as he looked up.

“I know his partner. James Caron. Doesn't live too far from here. This is Harry Fletcher.” 

“Ah, dammit.” Bill's mouth twisted, and Miles hastily amended, “I mean, I'm sorry. It's always harder when there's a personal connection. Do you think you should break the news, or would it come better from somebody officially impartial?”

“Not like there's a good way to hear this.” After a minute, Bill blew out a long breath. “We're going to have to talk to him sooner or later anyway. Guess we may as well get it over with.”

~

James Caron turned out to be a birdlike man in his early forties, not actually small but lightly built and fine boned, with keen, dark eyes set in an expressive face. It had fallen the moment he looked at Bill, and Miles couldn't help but be grateful that he was too observant to mistake this for a social call. His relief only grew over the course of the interview, as he watched Bill break the news quickly but gently, allow Mr. Caron to sit with it for a few moments, and then lead the conversation around to what they most needed to know. It wasn't just that he was a friend; Bill was good at this, really good. He could read the emotional undercurrents, knew when to press a point and when to let something go, just generally knew what to say. Miles had always found sensitive conversations the hardest part of the job, and his general approach was just to bull his way through them and hope that somewhere on the other side he'd find out how to fix whatever he broke along the way. Watching Bill work was like watching a conjuror.

Unfortunately, what he found out didn't amount to very much. James and Harry had lived a fairly quiet life. James was a librarian at UNB, and Harry worked as an engineer for Shapley Construction. They had a small circle of friends, were regulars at their local pub and made an effort to see the cabaret nights at the Crimson Cat. James hosted a weekly card game, but they didn't play for high stakes and besides, they hadn't admitted a new player in years.

As for the night before, he hadn't any idea why Harry had been at the docks. He had been expecting Harry to be back late, as Harry had told him he was going to be staying behind at his office for a few hours. This hadn't been unusual, and in fact James was expecting one or two such incidents; Harry had been tremendously excited about a new project he was working on, which often meant long working days. What was the project? Something about increased efficiency within the new steam tech engines; he couldn't give them the details, he was afraid, as he wasn't a particularly technically minded person himself.

Mr. Caron smiled at them, apologetic. His bony, long-fingered hands turned over and over each other, the knuckles white. Miles was suddenly, painfully aware of how much the man wanted to cry, and what it was costing him to be calmly answering their questions instead.

“Thank you very much, Mr. Caron, I think we've taken up more than enough of your time for today. We'll be in touch.” His voice sounded brusque to his own ears, much more than he meant it to. He was glad to see Bill press Mr. Caron's hand and mutter a few words to him before they left.

“So,” Bill said as they walked towards the nearest cab depot, “have we decided this is a simple one?” His voice was very light, almost but not quite offhand. “Harry gets tired of domestic life, it's not really in his nature, so he goes off to the docks in search of new and exciting companionship, propositions the wrong person and ends up shot for his trouble? He wouldn't be the first.”

Miles had stopped in his tracks to stare. Bill merely raised an eyebrow at him, gently inquisitive.

“Horseshit,” he finally managed, not even trying to keep the outrage from his voice. But Bill only smiled at him in response; the first real smile, Miles realised, that he'd seen from him since they left the docks.

“Well in that case,” Bill said, “I think we need to see his office.”

~

Thanks to the coroner's report, they arrived at Harry Fletcher's overstuffed corner office at Shapley Construction with a fairly good idea of what they were looking for. The fingers of Harry's right hand had been bent open post-mortem. While he could theoretically have been holding any number of objects, another short interview with James Caron had confirmed that Harry had left the house with his attaché case on the day of his death, and it hadn't been found at the crime scene. Their initial search of the office confirmed their suspicions; the case was nowhere to be found.

“The problem,” Bill said, not raising his head from the desk drawer he was examining, “is how you prove that documents are missing, as opposed to just not where you're looking for them.”

“The folders they're in have dates on,” Miles replied. “If we can't find anything dated within the last few weeks, that's pretty strong circumstantial evidence at least.”

Bill didn't reply. Miles looked over, and saw he had taken his drawer out and was now working with intense concentration to remove a folded piece of paper that was wedged behind its runners. Eventually he pulled it free, and with a soft 'ha!' of satisfaction, opened it up and began to read. A few minutes later he handed it over.

“What do you make of these sums, Miles?”

Miles scanned the page a few times.

“I think these are the kind of sums I'd be doing if someone had offered me two thousand crowns to do something I thought might lose me my job.”

Bill shook his head.

“Two thousand crowns. And you can hire a top of the line assassin for less than five hundred. Did they figure that out before or after they made the offer, do you think?”

“I'm not sure I want to know.”

~

Snelling hadn't liked their initial reports, but he'd left them to keep making the case. It was slow work; just sorting through all of Fletcher's documents had taken nearly a week. But the morning that Harris Construction Company announced their new top of the line steam engine (Efficiency Gains Of Over Thirty Percent!) he called them into his office first thing to demand they hand over everything they had.

“But, sir –”

“I know exactly what you're going to say, Fordham, and I don't want to hear it. Two detectives on their own are not going to take on Harris Construction, and there's no reason at all for me to give you extra manpower when the Serious Fraud boys want to take this whole mess off our hands.”

“Where, no doubt, it will make a fine addition to the case they're building up, which will be ready to go to trial in about fifteen years.” Bill's voice was drier than dust.

“This is not going to be an argument, Leger. I'm inclined to count this case as a success for the two of you. Don't make me change my mind. Finish up your reports and hand them over. Take the rest of the day off, if you like.” This magnanimous concession bestowed, Snelling inclined his head regally and gestured them out of the room.

A few hours later they left the precinct, and began to walk slowly down the road. Miles wasn't sure where they were going, if it was anywhere at all. Bill adressed the air in front of them.

“I spoke to some of Harry's co-workers. You know what he was working on? A valve. One tiny valve, in those great big machines.”

They walked on for a few minutes in silence.

“You think they'll put anyone away for it?” Miles asked.

“Oh, they'll put someone away, sooner or later. The man who pulled the trigger, or the man who paid for it, or a whole heap of guys who work for the man who works for the man who paid for it. They always get somebody.”

Miles hesitated.

“Look, I know this isn't how we wanted this all to turn out, and you may not feel much like celebrating, but my fiancée's singing at The Angel tonight. Her brother's in town too. Do you want to come? Meet them, have a couple of drinks, maybe set the world to rights a little?”

Bill didn't smile, but his eyes were warm.

“Sure, Miles. I don't know if we can set the world to rights, but I'll come.”

~

Bill's eyebrows raised a fraction when Miles introduced him to Addy, which was one question answered, but he kissed her hand and turned on all his charm. He even had a long talk with Derek, which was a relief; Miles liked Addy's brother very much, but somehow he never knew quite what to say to him. People from outside of Kingsland seemed to look at the world so differently.

After Addy had finished her second set, Miles found himself outside with Bill, sipping their ales straight from the bottle and watching the world go by.

“Thanks for introducing me to this place,” Bill said. “I only moved out of the Chum a few months back. Don't really know where to go round here, for good ale and good company.”

Miles smiled.

“I'm glad you and Addy get along,” he said, feeling a little awkward even to mention it. “Not all of my partners have wanted to meet her.” He glanced across. “I wasn't sure at first, if you didn't care or just didn't know –”

Bill shrugged.

“Neither, I guess. I don't always get let in on the station gossip.” He hesitated a minute, then said, “That's a good looking family you're marrying into.”

“Thanks.”

“I mean, Derek, in particular. Real good looking.”

“Ah!” Miles fought the absurd urge to shuffle his feet. “I should probably warn you, Derek's not in town very often. Has a little homestead down south that takes up most of his time.”

Bill gave him a sidelong look.

“Wasn't sure if you didn't care, or just didn't know.”

“Can I tell you something?” Miles asked, with a sudden rush of honesty. “I'm absolutely terrible at knowing things like that. Even when it's obvious to everyone else. Kind of a weakness in a detective, huh?”

Bill took a slow, contented pull at his ale.

“Well, partner,” he said. “I guess that's what you've got me for.”


End file.
